


Fits The Description

by FyrMaiden



Series: With Hairspray and Denim [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:38:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2137269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Pride, and Blaine is really very pretty.</p><p><i>My baby fits the description</i><br/>And does it easily<br/>A little Gable, some Astaire<br/>When he dances I can hardly breathe<br/>(Caro Emerald, <i>That Man</i>)</p><p>Warnings: None that I can think of. Sexuality is fluid, though. Both Santana and Blaine are a contentious 4 or wobbly 5 on the Kinsey Scale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fits The Description

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of stories where Blaine has relationships with girls, or they have relationships with him. They belong in a sort of chronological order, but I'm impatient and so I'm posting them as they're finished as opposed to the order they go in. I'm not sure the order will make much difference in the grand scale of things, running as they do from 18 to "somewhere in his early twenties".

It’s June and it’s hot, so hot that Santana can almost feel the buildings around her sweating. The tape holding her shirt to her skin is failing, and she knows she’s in danger of a serious wardrobe malfunction. Blaine says he told her she should have worn her bikini top underneath a shirt that’s basically asking for trouble, and she rolls her eyes and says that the packaging said it was heavy duty, what was she supposed to think it wouldn’t cope with a little bit of sweat? She shoves the tape at him out of her bag, and he tells her to hold still as his warm strong hands start peeling the dying strips from her skin.

“You can admit it,” she says as he rearranges her t-shirt, a strip of tape held between his teeth. “You’ve been angling for an excuse to touch these all day.” She shakes her shoulders and the loose sides of her bib-like shirt shift, causing Blaine to sigh and start again. Removing the tape from his teeth and affixing it to her skin, he laughs.

“Yeah,” he says, starting on the other side. “It’s been my most secret wish to have an excuse to touch your tits.” He tapes the other side of her shirt in place and stands back, canting his head. “Why this shirt?”

Santana looks down at the black lettering across her chest, three years old now and faded with wear and washing. “It meant something when I was 16,” she says.

“’Lebanese’?”

“I’m pretty sure Brit was aiming for ‘lesbian’.”

Blaine cocks his hip and grins, “I’m pretty sure Kurt’s got a Lebanese cookbook if you’re interested?”

Santana laughs, actually laughs, and says, “Or that movie that was really confusing, Lebanon.” She drops the tape back into her bag and re-emerges with a small flask, which she uncaps and takes a sip from before handing it to him, grinning when he grimaces.

“What is that?”

“The dregs of Berry’s limoncello.”

“It’s poisonous.”

“It looked it,” she nods. “Nothing luminous is good.” Recapping it, she drops the flask back into her bag and grabs his arm. “Come, we’ll miss all the fun.”

*

Santana has a list of things she will never admit out loud, and certainly not when she’s sober. At the top of her list of things is the fact that she thinks Blaine Anderson is really kind of cute, in his stupid dorky way. He’s infectious. He’s relentlessly charming. He’s just the right kind of boy to make her question her sexuality, because he makes her want to talk about the cutie in the pink knickers that he’s staring at, and he’s happy to admire a fine pair of tits with her, and he’s also willing to drink the crap in her hip flask and dance with her public, if it can even really be called dancing when both of them are verging on naked, her hot pants riding up her ass and her shirt held on with hope. His is lost somewhere four blocks back, and his skin is waxed smooth, and he’s really kind of pretty when he’s kissed gold by the summer. Blaine Anderson is exactly the kind of boy to make her question herself, and never more so than when he’s lightweight drunk on limoncello.

Blaine lets her draw on his skin with body paint. She starts with the obvious, and then wipes it off with a wipe from her magic carpet bag of supplies, and draws asymmetric patterns on his skin instead in bright yellow and neon pink. He grins and she smiles, and then she lets him draw a matching pattern on her face before she leans in and presses a kiss to his nose, which he wrinkles in response. Then he disappears into the press of bodies and she loses him amongst a crowd that is overwhelmingly taller than he is, only for him to reappear with two bottles of water and different shorts, which isn’t at all alarming. These ones are tiny and green and leave nothing to the imagination, which makes Kurt a very lucky boy, and he says, as if it makes sense, that he found someone who liked his shorts and so they swapped. So long as that’s all they swapped, Santana decides she doesn’t really care.

*

The afternoon wears on, hot and exhausting. Blaine’s hands are warm on her skin when he touches her, his teeth dazzling when he smiles. She pushes his bright yellow sunglasses up his nose and wonders how he manages to get away with those. From somewhere, or someone, he has gained a flower crown, and he wraps a rainbow lei around her arm. “I need to sit,” she says over the noise around them, and he nods amiably, and they wind their way through the crush of people to find a doorway in which they can their breath. She sinks to the floor and crosses her legs and tries to pretend her feet aren’t aching and melting in her healed Docs, and Blaine sits beside her, resting his head against her shoulder and grinning at the cute boy who smiles at him first. Santana pokes him and tells him to behave.

“Like you don’t like being admired,” he says, but it’s as non-judgemental as he ever is, and she thinks again, in another life, loving Blaine Anderson would be the easiest thing she’s ever done.

“But I,” she admonishes softly, pressing her lips to his hair and smoothing the curls with her fingers where the heat has melted the gel, “Am gloriously fabulously single. You’re just a tease.”

He sits up and shrugs a coy shoulder and glances at her over the top of his sunglasses, those honey gold eyes wide and innocent. “I think I prefer ‘flirt’,” he says. She rolls her eyes and finds her sunglasses in her bag and pushes them onto her face with a firm middle finger, which makes him laugh and laugh and laugh, and then she’s back on her feet.

“Come on, boy toy,” she holds out her hand. “Let’s go and find your man. He’s got my ticket to the party of the year.”

*

As the afternoon cools slowly into evening, Santana watches him dance with Kurt. She accepts a drink from a cute girl with part of her head shaved and a stud in her tongue, but doesn’t care enough to continue the conversation past the heavy implication inherent in questioning her shirt choice. Santana has a type, and it’s not punk chicks who only see her skin. When Kurt spins away to dance with his friends and Blaine ambles back to sit beside her and to steal a sip from her drink, she lets out a small incremental sigh. Blaine catches it, and she watches as his hand reaches for hers, switches her drink to the other side and lets him wind their fingers together.

“Dance with me,” he says, standing again, pulling her slowly with him. She shakes her head, laughs a little.

“I’m pretty sure what you do isn’t dancing,” she responds, and takes another sip of her drink. He tugs on her hand again and pouts, and she knows she’s going to lose when he pulls that face. She allows herself to be pulled to her feet, and pokes him with one dagger fingernail. “You,” she says, “Are a cheat.”

He doesn’t disagree, only slides his hand down her ribs and into the curve of her waist, presses their bodies together and slips back into the crowd with her.

*

They ride the crowded subway home together. Blaine has found a jacket, and Santana has been gifted a lightweight sweater by a girl who’d also given her her cell number and kiss that lingers on her lips and buzzes in her blood. Blaine knows he has something to go home to, had a message at a little past ten from Kurt, telling him he was leaving. Santana envies them that, a little, for all that she likes to pretend that their gross domesticity makes her teeth ache. She smiles at him when she catches his gaze, and he flicks a smile back.

If he ever questions it, Santana will put it down to the last waves of drunkenness, but she can’t help asking all the same, not with the way his body has felt against her and the way he’s made her feel alive. “Have you ever, y’know, been with a girl?”

He turns his head and demures, doesn’t answer her question except with one of his own. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, and she nods and smoothes her hand across his shoulder and down his arm and says yes, she’d like to know. When he meets her eyes, his are open and clear, and he bobs his head. “Just once,” he says, and she nods.

They don’t speak again until they leave the train.

*

She catches him one final time in the kitchen as she makes hot tea, her fingers strong around his wrist, reeling him in. He’s still covered in paint, but he’s got a vest on now, and soft pants to sleep in, his hair brushed through slightly. He inhabits every pore of himself and she can’t help but touch him. “You could make that twice,” she breathes, and leans in to press a soft kiss to his mouth.

His hand is gentle when it strokes her hair back from her face. He doesn’t say anything at all, only heads back to his room and pulls the curtain quietly behind him.

And really, that’s not a ‘no’.


End file.
